


Not A Place, But A People

by FictionPenned



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The Good Place (TV)
Genre: Alex asked why we even have this lever, Alternate Universe, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23057563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned
Summary: Two figures stand staring at a wall that both exists and does not exist, intently scrutinizing the message blazoned upon it in bright green letters:Welcome! Everything is fine.Aziraphale, being pure of spirit enough to buy into magnanimous statements, thinks that it is an absolutely lovely pair of sentences. After all, this whole experiment is being run in the name of goodness. Yes, it might be a tiny bit tainted by death, but all death happens in the name of ineffability. It simply cannot be avoided, and at least the dead are being eased into the transition a little bit.Crowley, on the other hand, lifts his chin and reads it over and over again with yellow, slitted eyes. Unlike Aziraphale, he has been told that this experiment is a punishment for humanity, and doesn’t it seem a tad arrogant to be declaring that 'everything is fine’ when it most certainly is not? Surely any dead humans passing through will get suspicious. He would, if he was in their shoes.“A bit ham, isn’t it?”An angel and a demon attempt to manage an experimental neighborhood in the afterlife.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Chidi Anagonye/Eleanor Shellstrop
Comments: 11
Kudos: 68





	1. A Very Brief Prelude

Two figures stand staring at a wall that both exists and does not exist, intently scrutinizing the message blazoned upon it in bright green letters.

Welcome! Everything is fine. 

Aziraphale, being pure of spirit enough to buy into magnanimous statements, thinks that it is an absolutely lovely pair of sentences. After all, this whole experiment is being run in the name of goodness. Yes, it might be a tiny bit tainted by death, but all death happens in the name of ineffability. It simply cannot be avoided, and at least the dead are being eased into the transition a little bit. 

Crowley, on the other hand, lifts his chin and reads it over and over again with yellow, slitted eyes. Unlike Aziraphale, he has been told that this experiment is a punishment for humanity, and doesn’t it seem a tad arrogant to be declaring that 'everything is fine’ when it most certainly is not? Surely any dead humans passing through will get suspicious. He would, if he was in their shoes. 

“A bit ham, isn’t it?” Crowley comments after a long pause, turning towards Aziraphale with raised eyebrows and a slight lift of his shoulders. 

“I think it’s lovely,” Aziraphale replies in a voice that suggests that he may be on the verge of breaking into either blubbering tears or bustling laughter. It is terribly hard to distinguish between the two, especially when considering a person who has a terrible habit of bursting into tears of genuine happiness. “Oh, I do so adore a strong beginning, Crowley.” 

To Aziraphale, this is the start of a grand adventure, even if they aren't technically _going_ anywhere. Aziraphale has the great misfortune of being an angel, which traditionally means that one meets very few new people and is subjected to the same list of approved entertainment over and over again, and such things tend to grow dull rather quickly. For centuries, he has felt a distinct itch in his feet that he's never been able to scratch, and when asked if he was willing to oversee a grand experiment in the name of goodness and light, he leapt at the chance. He rather likes the change, and against all odds, he is already quite fond of the company. 

Where Aziraphale is white hair and beige clothes, Crowley is red hair and snakeskin. In fact, he was a snake for a decent while at the start of everything, but in the intervening millennia, he shed most of his serpentine characteristics in favor of something more human. Not _exactly_ human -- since he is still a demon, after all, and there is no shaking that -- but close enough to human that he can pass for one at a safe distance. He accepted this assignment simply because it seemed easy. Letting four people torture each other for eternity? It seems like minimal work for maximum payoff, and that is by far the most appealing kind of work arrangement. Far preferable to the messy alternatives with which his many unholy colleagues often find themselves saddled.

Crowley leans back on his heel, shoving his hands in the pockets of his too-tight jeans, still staring up at the letters on the wall. 

"Janet," he asks after a brief pause, "Can we swap out the exclamation point with a period?"

A ding in the ambient air accompanies the sudden appearance of another not-quite person. Janet, though dressed like a person and vaguely person shaped, is the main operational mainframe of this Neighborhood and the experiment that occurs herein. Janet possesses all the knowledge in the universe and the ability to create objects within it, a skill set that dwarfs those of both the angel and the demon that stand beside her. 

"Absolutely," Janet says with a bright smile. 

The text changes. 

Welcome. Everything is fine.

A frustrated groan slithers from Crowley's throat. "No, that's somehow worse, isn't it?"

He glances over at Aziraphale, who merely shrugs, though the smug expression on his face suggests that he absolutely agrees. 

The demon turns back to the wall, arms raised in a half-hearted shrug of surrender. "Janet, could you put it back?"

"Okay!"

Welcome! Everything is fine. 

There is still something a bit off about it (perhaps it's the typeface?) but it will have to do. The arrival of the four dead humans is imminent, and they no longer have time to obsess over minute details. 

"You ready, Angel?" Crowley says, pulling a pair of sunglasses out of his back pocket and sliding them onto his face to cover his telltale eyes. 

"Never better," Aziraphale replies with a small gesture of barely contained excitement. It's the truth. Fun lies far beyond goodness' purview, but this place -- the good mixed with the bad -- offers the promise of a high that previously seemed untenable. The experiment hasn’t even started yet, and he is already positively giddy. 

"Right then, let's welcome our first arrival, shall we?" 


	2. Eleanor

When most people make mistakes, they do so with good intentions. Eleanor Shellstrop, however, never met a good intention in her life, and even if she did, she probably wouldn’t have recognized it. Her mind was almost completely composed of selfish impulses -- some of which could feasibly be blamed on an unsteady home life as a child, the rest of which were entirely of her own making -- and she indulged them with relish. In fact, her recent death could be attributed to three such impulses converging in an unexpected way, however, she is currently blissfully unaware of that fact. Angels and demons have both found that removing memories of death upon a soul’s entrance into the afterlife makes the process go more smoothly for all parties involved. There are only so many times one can be reasonably subjected to panicked shrieking and wildly flailing limbs before being tempted to participate in the milieu. Crowley, in particular, possesses a strong disdain for such displays.  
  
After a lengthy period of indistinct and strangely comforting darkness, Eleanor opens her eyes, viewing the afterlife for the first time. Large, bright green words set against a white wall fill almost her entire field of vision.  
  
  


Welcome! Everything is fine. 

Though Eleanor doesn’t know why anything _wouldn’t_ be fine -- she has a long history of waking up in strange places with no memory of how she managed to get there -- a smile spreads across her face and relief flutters in her heart. Her gaze roams the room, taking in the sharp lines and neatly kept plants, and she wonders if she managed to blunder her way into one of those fancy, modern hotels with spas in the basement and live flamingos in an enclosure by the pool.  
  
She is about to stand up and slip out what appears to be the front door -- just in case there’s an embarrassing sexual partner from the night before lurking unseen in a bathroom somewhere -- when another door cracks open, and a pair of mismatched individuals poke their heads around the corner in a rush of red and black and beige. 

“Eleanor Shellstrop, is it?” The taller and lankier of the two asks, peering down at her with a set of eyes sequestered behind the unforgivingly mirrored lenses of his sunglasses.  
  
Eleanor can see herself reflected back in the surface of his glasses, and she allows herself a quick moment to take inventory. She certainly doesn’t look like the mess she’s come to expect after a wild night of partying. In fact, she looks more put together than she has in _years_. Her hair is even curled, which is a surprise, since she sacrificed her flat iron to a failed “6 Ways To Make Scrambled Eggs Without Using A Stove” lifehack five months ago and never bothered to replace it. 

She has never been a person to put an undue amount of effort into anything, not even in the name of vanity. She is hot, she’s _always_ been hot, and she is confident that she is equally hot in stretchy pants and a messy bun as she is in heels and a full face of makeup. If given the choice, she’ll opt for stretchy pants every time.  
  
Instead of answering the question, she narrows her eyes at the strange men and asks, “Who’re you?”  
  
The taller one opens his mouth to respond, raking a hand back through shoulder-length crimson hair, but the shorter one -- blonde and wearing a boringly beige ensemble that looks strangely out of time -- interrupts him. “I think it would be best if you came in and had a seat first. That’s the way these conversations usually go, after all. Desks and sitting and _pleasantries_.” Each word is a little more drawn out than the last in a quiet dig that Eleanor recognizes but does not understand. 

The blonde turns his gaze back towards the redhead, who shrugs.  
  
“I _suppose_ ,” he concedes, word dripping with amusement, before turning back towards Eleanor. “Well, come on, then. Let’s do as the angel says and get this show on the road.”   
  
“Is there a road, Crowley?” the shorter blonde twitters in confusion.  
  
It takes both Eleanor and the lanky fellow known as Crowley a moment to understand the question.  
  
“ _No_ . No. Of course there’s not a road. It’s a figure of speech, isn’t it? Like ‘Let’s get this party started’ and ‘Get in, loser, we’re going shopping.’ Your lot has figures of speech, don’t they?” Crowley delivers the information with a tired and slightly bemused air befit only for people who have either done this a thousand times before or are encountering this situation for the very first time. Eleanor cannot begin to guess which of the two it might be, though the word _angel_ would have her leaning ever so slightly towards the former. People don’t use pet names for people they’ve only just met. Or, at least, most people don’t. She once had a roommate who used the word ‘sweetie’ _very_ liberally. For myriad reasons, that living situation did not last long.  
  
“Hate to interrupt,” Eleanor says quickly, trying to drag the conversation back towards things that are immediately useful to her, so that she doesn’t have to continue suffering through whatever circle of hell this conversation represents, “But weren’t you going to explain who you were and where I am or something?” 

“Quite right,” the blonde says, drawing himself up and retreating back through the open doorway. Crowley follows.  
  
The two men take up seats behind a large mahogany desk. Crowley idly swings his feet up onto the surface of the table while the other man eyes him disdainfully. With no small amount of hesitation, Eleanor lowers herself into the chair opposite them, feeling almost like she’s a child again, called into the principal's office for questioning and subsequent punishment. She spent almost as much time in detention as she did in actual classrooms. It’s a small miracle that she came out of school with anything in her head aside from anger and resentment and the names of all the girls who wrongfully kissed Martin Blake, but she _does_ know the three branches of government and she read exactly half of The Great Gatsby.  
  
Eleanor cast her eyes around the room. It is just as plain as the one that she just exited. Modern, sharp, home to a selection of plants so perfectly kept that they _must_ be fake. With the exception of the desk, the only real difference is that instead of a welcome message on the wall, there’s a pair of windows, and neatly nestled between those windows is a portrait of a rather dazed-looking high-school boy, hung with the same reverence as one might display a picture of Jesus. 

“Should I start? Should you start?” the blonde asks, looking over at his counterpart with no small amount of anxiousness.  
  
“I’ll start,” Crowley says, swinging his feet back to the floor and leaning forward, clasping his hands on the surface of the desk. Eleanor can’t help but notice that there’s something odd in the way the man moves, a fluidity that feels distinctly inhuman. Maybe he’s a dancer or something. Dancers are always a bit weird.  
  
“You, Eleanor Shellstrop, are dead.” Crowley pauses for the necessary dramatic effect, eyeing her through his glasses as he waits for the information to sink in. He wonders, for a moment, if she is going to fight him. He’s heard stories about people flinging themselves across the room and arguing the truth. Could be a bit fun. He would love to see Aziraphale be dragged into a physical altercation.  
  
Alas, Eleanor meets the news only with a slightly stilted, “Oh.”  
  
It feels right, being dead. Something has felt off ever since she opened her eyes. Not off in the ‘I have a hangover and I’ll be fine in a few hours’ way, but off in a ‘the nagging ache in my back and the spot on the roof of my mouth that I burned by trying to chug piping hot McDonald’s coffee while driving to work on Tuesday are completely gone’ kind of way. She hadn’t really noticed those things at first, but now that the thought of death has been planted in her mind, it permeates everything from the slightly fruity taste of the air to the perfectly moderate temperature of the room.  
  
Death…feels _good_ .  
  
“So what is this, then?” she asks, gesturing towards the space around them. “And who are you? And why don’t I remember dying? Did I suffocate in my sleep? Was I murdered? Did my roommate’s cat eat me? Knew that little bastard had it out for me. Any animal that follows you into the bathroom is not to be trusted.”  
  
The blonde, full to bursting with excitement, takes over. “I’m Aziraphale, this is Crowley, and you, Eleanor, are in the afterlife. We’ve found that the details of death tend to provoke discomfort in the recently deceased, so we hold onto them until a later date when they might be returned to you. I can, however, confidently assure you that neither cats nor murderers were involved.”  
  
“ _Huh_ ,” she says, taking a quick glance around the room again before turning her eyes back to the two strangers. “So who was right? Not that I have a horse in the race, but was there a religion out there that called that the dead would be welcomed by weirdos? I mean, no offense, but you look like some dude my cousin forked at Colonial Williamsburg over spring break in 2007, and you look like you spent 3 months being dragged along by Ozzy Osbourne’s tour bus while on a gap year.”

"None taken," Crowley says nonchalantly in the same moment that Aziraphale draws himself up and declares, "How rude."

Their eyes meet in the space between them, at the same spot where their voices collide.   
  
Aziraphale coughs and rustles his shoulders, like a duck sloughing off pond water. “Everyone was a _tiny_ bit right. You see, good behavior is rewarded and bad behavior is punished, but no one has ever really gotten it entirely correct, except for Doug Forcett. We have him on the wall there, as you can see. He made a guess that was approximately 92% correct. No one’s ever gotten that close before or since.”  
  
“He was high on mushrooms at the time,” Crowley adds for good measure.  
  
“Are you sure I’m not high on mushrooms now?” Eleanor says, eyes flicking between the portrait and the desk.  
  
“Do you tend to do mushrooms?” Crowley asks.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then probably not,” he says, slouching back into his chair again and idly flicking his fingers against the armrest.  
  
“So, is this…” Eleanor struggles to find the right word. She’s never been a particularly religious person, and since no one aside from Doug Forcett seems to know the truth of the afterlife anyway, it seems a bit silly to borrow the Christian words for heaven and hell anyway. In the end, she merely points first up and then down.  
  
“You’re in the good place,” Crowley answers. Unlike Aziraphale, he has no qualms about directly lying to the recently deceased.  
  
“Really?” Eleanor says, disbelief scrunching the faint lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. “Cause your hair and your general vibe, it doesn’t really scream ‘good,’ does it?”  
  
Crimson eyebrows raise. “What’s wrong with my hair?” Behind his glasses, Crowley’s eyes flick sideways to appeal to Aziraphale for support. Aziraphale merely shrugs. He doesn’t disagree with Eleanor’s assessment. Crowley could have put more effort into dressing for the part, but he had been loath to shed the snakeskin accessories and black clothing of which he is so fond.  
  
“It’s like Jesus had an evil, kind of greasy twin.”  
  
“ _Right_ ,” Aziraphale practically jumps from his chair, whacking his left knee on the underside of the desk in his haste. He could sense that things might begin to get ugly, and he would rather not have to wipe Eleanor’s mind and do this all over again simply because Crowley doesn’t have the good sense to avoid mentioning his demonic status. “Eleanor, we will have Janet show you around the neighborhood while we greet the rest of the new arrivals, and then we’ll check in at orientation. How does that sound?”  
  
“Fine, I guess?” If Eleanor was the sort of person to have preconceived notions about the afterlife, she might have expected it to be a bit more organized than this slapdash endeavor, but maybe the afterlife is just as messy as life itself. It’d make sense.  
  
“Good. Excuse me. Janet!” Aziraphale turns to an empty area of the carpet and accompanied by a bright _ding_ , a figure appears. Eleanor thinks that Janet looks like a flight attendant. Or a kindergarten teacher. Either way, Janet _definitely_ has the look of the sort of person who drives a Toyota Prius that deserves to get keyed in a grocery store parking lot.  
  
“Eleanor, this is Janet,” Aziraphale says brightly, gesturing greetings from one to the other. “Janet is the interface of our little neighborhood here. Anything you need, she can get it for you. She’ll guide you on your tour.”  
  
“It’s nice to meet you Eleanor! Follow me, I’ll show you around.” With a bit of nudging and a nervous scramble, Janet manages to herd Eleanor out of the room without so much as a ‘thank you!’ or a quick ‘see you later!’

When the door shuts behind them, Crowley finally has a chance to lend his voice to his recently founded insecurities. “Is my hair _greasy_ , Angel?”  
  
“Maybe a little bit. Did you put any product in it?” Aziraphale asks, tilting his head ever so slightly as he gives the demon a quick once-over. In general, he doesn’t approve of Crowley’s appearance, though he admits that the demon is much more appealing in vaguely human form than he is as a snake. Something about creatures with no legs gives Aziraphale the heebie-jeebies, though that might be the lingering results of the intense conditioning that angels have been subjected to over the last handful of millennia. The higher-ups are running on a very anti-snake, pro-sound of music platform at the moment.  
  
“No. It just kind of exists, doesn’t it? Not sure if it’s even fully corporeal most of the time.” Crowley takes the ends between his fingers, squinting and frowning as he examines them. “Bit of a foreign concept, hair.”  
  
“You could cut it?” Aziraphale proposes, taking a step forward. “Snap of your fingers, just like that? Could always miracle it back if you don’t like it.”  
  
“Isn’t the next person a professor of ethics? Do you think he’ll even notice? Academics don’t normally skulk about criticizing other people’s appearances, do they? They’re all books and words and putting their undershirts on the wrong way round in the morning.”  
  
“No, probably not, but the one after him most definitely will. Should we chalk him up as a practice round? We can always tighten it up from there? I bet Janet could circulate a survey around the staff.” The angel’s eyes brighten at the thought of surveys. He loves surveys. They remind him of Family Feud, a delightful little program that isn’t _technically_ on the approved media list, but he consumes on his off days. Humans are ever so clever.   
  
“Fine.”  
  
Crowley snaps his fingers, his hair shortens and gets a bit fluffier, and after a few minutes spent batting away Aziraphale’s fussy, interfering fingers, the pair is ready to greet their next arrival.


End file.
